


Endless Things

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Astral Plane, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Canon, Telepathic Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are predetermined. Erik returns to the mansion after his break with Charles, and Charles, having made some advancements of his own, is ready for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless Things

After, Charles finds it difficult to sleep.

There is of course the pain, low in his stomach, up his back, and knotted neatly between his shoulder blades. He'd never been one to sit still for very long.

Hank formulates a special cocktail of drugs for him, a shot which promises to lessen the ache without dampening his telepathic abilities. If Charles is honest with himself, he ought to shrug it off, but more because the quiet afforded by simple opiates is not unwelcome, rather than any fear of Hank's chemistry skills.

And yet Charles still jokes, "You're sure about this, Hank? I don't think blue would suit me..."

"Don't worry," Hank says.

Charles senses a shudder pass through Hank's mind: Hank is still far from comfortable in his own skin, and the reality of his transformation has left him short-fused. Closing his eyes, Charles reaches out to him with a tendril of confidence, and moreover, _acceptance_.

Without comment, Hank disinfects a patch on Charles' forearm, injects him with the painkiller, clear and dazzling and immediate.

When Charles opens his eyes again, Hank is still close.

"Okay?" says Hank.

"Yes," Charles agrees. He doesn't assume this will be easy. "Very well."

Hank makes for the door. "I'll be close, Professor. If you need me."

Charles turns towards the window, focusing beyond his own reflection and the blinking, mechanical spectres which flank him -- medical equipment brought up from Hank's lab -- to take in the grounds. He'd seen Alex and Sean out there earlier that afternoon raking leaves, and they had drained the fountain several days ago. The first frost will come soon.

It is an odd thing, Charles reckons, to be alone. Since their return from the beach, the mansion has felt too quiet, too still. Of course he has Alex and Sean, and Hank and Moira.

For the boys, visiting him is a tedious necessity: Charles is more and more their Professor X, and he never misses a beat in doling out training assignments. They're cheerful enough, but Charles senses in them that they'd rather be anywhere else. Most days, he lets them finish early.

The hours Moira spends with him are penance. But she's had practice at consoling the bedridden.

"Tell me how I can help you," she said, a week after the accident. She brought him an old Coleridge volume she found in the study. A fanciful thing, that poet's dream of monsters. And Moira herself understands mutants but vaguely, though she tries.

When Charles is strong enough, he'll send her away.

 _You're my oldest friend._

 _I'm your only friend._

He often finds himself missing Raven. An abstract thing, but not only. When he thinks of her, there's a tenderness which sits ever low in his chest, not quite an ache, but certainly a bother.

It comes to him when he's read an interesting piece in the morning paper, something Raven would comment on, snide but intelligent. It comes to him when he's left alone with his own thoughts -- Charles even wishes she was there to call him out, bring him back to earth. But he should be satisfied to know she's happy.

And there's still another sensation, a longing which pangs from a deeper place in him.

//Erik,// he sends, knowing there won't be an answer.

Erik, who might well have stared through Shaw and straight into Charles as the coin passed through Shaw's skull. Could Erik have realized the reverberated scope of Shaw's agony, the pulse of _not him_ and _not yet_ as it turned into a sheer, voluminous tremor?

Shaw had been so bloody convinced of his own power; losing control was the greatest terror of his life. And yet with all that, Charles hadn't let Shaw go. He can't say what happened then wasn't what he wanted.

Sometimes, he wakes with the feeling that Erik's eyes are still on him.

***

"You're recruiting again," says Erik. He's on the threshold of Charles' master suite-- the walk there through the mansion had been unimpeded, and Erik can't help but marvel at the fact that Charles must have seen to that. Charles, still compassionate after everything that happened between them, and Erik himself like a stray dog at the door, gaunt in the firelight as he waits for scraps.

Erik doesn't deserve such treatment -- he has, after all, kept his bite.

But he schools his expression into something neutral, slowly grasping the whole of this: the too-bright wheelchair frame, the easy, earnest look, the hands held loose in the lap, not white-knuckled as Erik imagined, and all of it simply _Charles_.

"The world continues, my friend," Charles says, after a moment. "Now, are you going to come in, or just stand there gaping?"

Erik takes a few steps forward. "I've known. My telepath has her ways -- but surely you must realize how that works." And then: "I knew what became of you, Charles."

"What good is simply knowing a thing? There is doing something about it, or there is nothing." Charles shakes his head. "I'm not angry, Erik. What happened that day--"

"You _should_ be angry," Erik bites out, despite himself. "Anyone would, and damn it Charles, you aren't as holy as you imagine."

And that's when Erik notices the slight quirk round Charles' mouth. Erik can't read Charles' thoughts any more than Charles can read his, not when he's wearing the helmet, but his long years on the move have taught him how to _see_ people. Charles has spent so much of his life hiding in plain sight, and he does have his regrets. This is no exception. Yes, a part of Charles must be delirious with what happened, his body earth-bound in a way he could never have foreseen.

"Is there no pain?" Erik asks, needing to know.

"It's better with time."

"And your abilities? Are they impeded?"

"Again, time. The longer I'm stationary, like this, the farther my reach seems to expand. And it's only been a few months." A shadow seems to pass over Charles' face. "Erik," he says, tiredly. "Take off the helmet."

"I can't imagine what you hope to glean from me," says Erik.

"No. I will _show you_."

For a long moment, Erik is perfectly still. He knows Charles' gaze is on him; Erik himself stands transfixed by a ghastly landscape which hangs several feet above Charles' head. Anything to distract, to remain impassible and unpersuaded, to stifle the urge to fall to Charles' side.

Allowing Charles to enter his mind now would border on madness. But it isn't the first time he has questioned his own sanity.

Erik takes off the helmet.

He _feels_. But it isn't the low warmth he'd come to expect from Charles, easy at Erik's fringes as they stood together, debating or training. Nor is there the ecstasy Charles shared with him so guilelessly whenever they'd had sex. It's a pulse, too slow to be a heartbeat, but just as steady, like the rattle of a faraway train. Steel on steel. Erik envisions this lumbering beast, at once knowing that everything he gained in Charles' company will pass him by.

Now Erik does go to Charles. He lets the helmet drop to the floor. The cape follows close behind. And in a beat, he's on his knees, one hand on the wheelchair armrest and the other on Charles' thigh.

"I don't expect your forgiveness," he says. "No Charles, don't protest. What's come between us--"

"It can't be undone," Charles agrees.

"Then what?"

"The only thing we have, my friend, is that which lies before us. We _choose_ what happens next."

Erik can't argue with him -- not exactly. He has long shaped his own path, selecting each step as though the black and white spaces of a chess board stretched all around him. But some things are also predetermined. The knight's move is known.

Charles' hands are on Erik's face. When Erik shifts up to kiss him, Charles is there.

Only now does Erik hear him: //How I've missed you.//

Charles is already flushed, and there's that heartbeat. Oh, but Erik wants him, can't help but imagine dragging his tongue and teeth over Charles' familiar flesh -- to hear Charles keen with need, to relearn the flickering pace of Charles' mind against his own.

It's folly. Charles watches him, hazy and distracted. Of course after everything he must shrink from Erik's touch. His lips must be more salty than sweet.

//No.// The single syllable echoes in Erik's thoughts.

And then aloud, Charles says, "Erik. I want this."

"What makes you think that coming from me, it would be more than a pity fuck?" Erik says, despite himself, loathing every word. Why would noble Charles, righteous Charles, _his_ Charles allow this to go so far?

Charles smiles then. "We all have needs."

"And is this your need to change me? To convince me to return to your side?"

"No," Charles repeats.

Erik knows he's lying. But Erik is also only a man.

"How?" he manages finally, fingers bunching the coarse wool of Charles' trousers. Then he pauses, not knowing if Charles can even feel that much.

"Don't worry," Charles says. "It's far from perfect. But there are ways--"

"Anything." The word slips out before Erik has time to think -- he doesn't know if he means it entirely, or if only enough. He meets Charles' eye. "Tell me."

"Help me onto the bed."

This isn't easy. Erik is used to hauling ten-ton slabs of metal around before breakfast, but to use his own bodily strength for something other than the domination of another man -- that is unusual. He must be careful.

Erik bends round for Charles' arm to slip over his shoulders, hand at Erik's collarbone, and then down again to hoist Charles' legs up and lift him from the chair. Charles is heavier than he looks. But gently, too gently, Erik steps to the side of the bed and sets Charles down on the coverlet.

Before Erik can raise himself, Charles' hands are on him again, fingers carding though the short hair at Erik's temples, and Charles presses into Erik's mind. For a moment, Erik is dazzled by it. It's like a door has opened. If he ever had a home, perhaps this is what it would be like to return to it -- such a ridiculous thought, but for a moment, Erik allows it.

And then Charles pulls away. The tease.

//Come. Lay beside me.//

It's more than a suggestion -- Erik feels himself tugging at his clothes, pulling his tunic over his head -- but it's also only by his own will. Erik falls into step with their old routine, takes his place as though it had been but hours since they'd last slept together, and Charles stares up at him, pupils blown, patient and quite near.

"There," Charles says after Erik has moved onto the bed beside him. "Just... On your side, all right?"

Erik isn't sure where this is going. Charles is still totally clothed, and it makes Erik uneasy -- he longs to scramble for Charles' shirt buttons, to run his hands down Charles' smooth chest and feel that heat again.

But Charles just reaches forward, fondly cupping Erik's jaw. "Calm yourself, Erik. We've time."

"I wasn't--"

"Shh." Charles moves his fingers up to Erik's temple, and then he presses his brow to Erik's, and _oh_ , this is not what Erik had been accustomed to before, even through their wildest dabblings in the use of Charles' powers during sex.

Nor is it entirely different.

It's simply _more_ , like Charles is all around him, steeped in each of Erik's cells, glinting through his veins.

//Like Frankenstein's monster,// he thinks, suddenly fighting the urge to pull back. //Can't escape it.//

//Steady, Erik.//

Erik feels Charles' voice more than he hears it, and then Charles' accompanying laughter is like a breeze on Erik's skin.

//Yes,// comes Charles. //In this place, sight and touch and sound can be rather interchangeable.//

//But _where_ are we?// Erik asks.

//Look, my friend.//

Erik does. It is a vast field of stars.

And then it is this: a wide, grand hall, like that of a Venetian _palazzo_ , everything checkered and gilt and far too opulent. He'd seen such a place three years before when he was on the hunt for Edgar Eisener, one of Schmidt's lackeys. But it had been late, and the place was deserted, cold and disused.

Now, it is still empty, but light radiates from each corner, splashes through every mirror and then back again, and the low chortle of music begins to pipe from-- where, exactly? He smells flowers, and the salty, aged presence of polished wood. Far beneath it all lurks the heady stench of the nearby canal.

And there's Charles.

Erik takes in his eyes first -- perhaps this is habit. Then the curl of his hair round his ears, the pale length of his throat which ends in the severe white and black of a tuxedo collar and bow tie, and the tuxedo itself, an immaculate thing, so dark does it appear against the ballroom's brightness.

By God, but Erik must be mad. It takes him a moment to recognize the truest marvel: Charles, _standing_ there for all the world. Like he'd never lost it. Like Erik had never--

Erik closes the distance between them, kisses him long and hard, adoring the simple act of ruddying Charles' too-pink mouth, and then thrusts his tongue against Charles' to taste him fully. He scarcely knows where this urgency has lurked, but he dives in, halfway drunk on it already.

When they part, both heave a breath before Erik asks again, "What is this place?"

Charles smiles. "In the simplest terms, this is a plane which exists between our minds. We can both share it, change things. Here, we are each a _projection_ , Erik. An astral body which represents one's best self."

Erik snorts. It sounds like nonsense. More akin to something a Vienna head-shrinker would spew out to his patient than a truth of the world.

Yet it seems real enough. Erik can't deny that there's an energy to the place: if he touched a wall, he suspects it would sizzle. And again: there's Charles.

"Well?" Charles asks, making no secret of reading him. "What do you think?"

"I think I must be back in my compound, dreaming."

"'And I who say you are dreams -- I am but a dream myself,'" Charles murmurs. The music seems to rise all around them then in a lilting waltz. Charles holds out a hand, palm up.

Erik takes it. "I've had few occasions to dance," he admits, but allows Charles to pull him close.

"Just follow my lead," says Charles. And with a smirk: "This dance floor needs breaking in."

Charles' free hand skirts round to settle at the small of Erik's back, and they begin to move, Erik cautious, his eyes on Charles' feet as they shift dauntlessly forward. It takes several halting minutes for them to develop something resembling a rhythm, but after, it feels right.

"You seem to know your way around," says Erik.

"Yes," Charles replies. "I've the unfortunate distinction of having been to rather more black-tie galas than co-ed parties."

And just like that, as the old banter picks up between them and Charles' hand remains firm and dry in Erik's, it's as though the bridge has been reforged. Erik knows it won't last. It never could have: he and Charles never wanted the same thing. But he holds onto Charles all the tighter, kisses him, and wonders if breath is actually a necessity in this place.

Before long, the melody untangles into a jazzy, jangly nothing. This is Erik's doing. He also looks at Charles' throat, wishing he'd shed that preposterous tie and loosen some buttons, and then it's done, along with Erik's own.

"Better," Erik murmurs against Charles' bared skin. He lets the tip of his tongue drag over the hollow, feeling Charles' breath hitch.

"You're getting the hang of it," Charles huffs and begins to divest Erik of his tuxedo jacket. "But action is half the pleasure."

Erik laughs. Hell, but he could take Charles right here.

//Wait.// Charles brushes a thumb over Erik's lips to halt him, but Erik takes this as an opportunity to suck it into his mouth. Charles shudders, pulling back. "Really, Erik. I've... somewhere else in mind."

"It had better be nearby," says Erik.

Charles leads him through a door near the back of the ballroom, //Just through here,// and into...

A dark flat full of periodicals, stacked paper, and empty wine bottles.

"Lovely digs," Erik comments, looking about him.

"No," Charles says, shaking his head. He seems equally mystified by the place. "This isn't at all what I had in mind."

"Oh?" Erik moves behind him, breathes heavy on this neck, nibbles gently at his earlobe.

Another shudder passes through Charles' frame. "No. Erik, please. This isn't... at all a five star hotel suite in Bruges."

Erik sniffs. "Your observational skills are brilliant, Charles." Licks, then nips again. "And where then... May I ask... Have you brought us?"

"My old flat. In Oxford," Charles says. Then he spins round to begin at Erik's shirt buttons. "I must be _quite_ distracted."

"I've not put you off your game, have I, Charles?"

It's like baiting a leopard. Charles grins.

Then he reaches down to Erik's groin, and with the heel of his hand he presses firm and sweet against Erik's cock. Erik gasps, despite himself. It's _good_.

In a moment, they're both free of clothes -- by hand or by will, and that is a feat worth marveling at.

By Charles' lead, they make it to the bedroom and tumble together onto the single mattress. In snatches, Erik takes stock of the place: it's less full of work than the rest of the flat, and indeed, less full of everything. Except for a couple of nondescript prints on the wall, a single angel plant by the window, and a framed photo of Albert Einstein on the dresser, the space is devoid of personality.

But Charles himself is offering plenty of that. He's managed to all but pin Erik against the headboard, Erik's back steady on the carved wood, and is straddling Erik's legs hotly, close enough that both their cocks brush together.

" _Charles_ ," Erik pants. And then, brightly: //I need this.//

//I know.//

Charles slides down, his mouth working deftly at one of Erik's nipples, then the other, and oh, Erik thinks he would be content here forever, torn totally apart. Down, then down, and Charles' tongue flicks the tip of Erik's cock, clearing the pre-come before he takes him into his mouth with one agonizing gulp.

//Show me,// Erik sends, unable to say it. //Show me what you feel.//

And it's this: awe and lust, and beyond that, a deep fount of gratitude. Erik realizes then, looking down at Charles, only this: Charles didn't think Erik would return.

Erik knows the meaning of finality more than most, but this-- it shakes him. His Charles. The thought of never seeing him again is unimaginable. But after all that had happened between them, Charles' injury and their separation in the missiles' shadow on that damned beach... It was little wonder.

Charles begins to shift, to suck.

"Oh," Erik manages, realizing that indeed, breath must _not_ be a necessity in Charles' world. A few more minutes of this, and he'll be done for. He pushes Charles' hair from his brow, then guides him back, leads him up again. "Come here."

Erik tastes himself on Charles' mouth. He wonders, vaguely, whose memory that's coming from, but before he has a chance to ask, Charles is shifting over him again, scrabbling with the nightstand drawer to retrieve the jar of lube.

Charles begins to coat his own fingers, then reaches round to begin stretching _himself_ right there on Erik's lap. The sight of it makes Erik's mouth go dry: Charles is a sweaty, writhing mess, but he's careful as he pushes in one finger, then a second, and careful to let Erik see it all.

"Christ, Erik," Charles hisses. "The way you look at me... No one _knows_. Not a bloody clue."

Erik squeezes Charles's thighs, threatening to bruise, and then circles back to knead at his arse. "Tell me, Charles," he says. "How many did you _have_ in this room? Humans, like flies coaxed into the spider's web."

"It wasn't like that." Charles makes it to three fingers. He gasps. "It was only by their free will."

Erik laughs, the sound a low rumble in his chest. "But your powers gave you the clear advantage. Surely you must have been tempted..." He raises a hand, latching on to the lamp pull chain above them and breaking it free with a snap.

A little wild-eyed, Charles stares after the chain as Erik draws it around, then obediently holds his wrists together while Erik binds them behind him. "There's nothing like it, Charles." He fastens the chain. Grunts, "Yes?"

Charles groans in response and ruts forward, flexing into the tightness of his bonds. "Erik, _please_."

"Tell me."

"God, you're... impossible."

"Now, Charles."

//There's only been you.//

For the moment, it's enough. Erik helps Charles lift forward, one hand on his own cock as he guides it to Charles' arse.

With tiny movements, infuriating slowness, Charles slides down and releases one long breath as he impales himself, down until he reaches the base of Erik's cock, clenching round it, and it's far too hot and close -- Erik forces the idea from his brain that it will never be exactly _this_ again.

Charles holds most of his weight in his legs. And he's clearly struggling to keep himself balanced.

Erik sets his hands on Charles' hips. //Move.//

Charles does: first smoothly up and down again, and then breaking into a more frantic pace, rocking himself forward to take Erik's cock as deeply he can.

Through the haze of his pleasure, Erik sees the sweat beaded at Charles' temples; the crinkle at either eye when Charles squeezes them shut; the redness of his mouth; the lean muscles of his thighs, working through the strain. _How could such a creature come to harm?_ he thinks, wildly.

Erik holds Charles tighter then, jutting his hips up to meet Charles' movement, then takes Charles' cock in his hand, pumps him til Charles' breath puffs out harsh and labored--

And Charles comes, wordlessly shaking through it. Erik has long known that Charles keeps himself in check through every rakish step, and now it's as though the measured coils in him have snapped free to release all that pent energy.

Erik can't keep on like this, there isn't a chance, so he braces Charles, fucking him through the last of his tremors before Erik hits the high water mark and he's over the edge.

//Charles,// he sends, his mouth busy on Charles', his body a sticky, shuddering mess. //Inside. Always inside. Never go, never--//

//Yes.//

Then it's over. They're both too breathless to talk. Charles eases off him, and with a flick of his fingers, Erik unwinds the cord from Charles' wrists, letting it fall to the sheets. He brings Charles' arms around to rub at the tense muscles and the pockmarks which skirt the skin where Erik held him.

There's no need to wash. Erik wishes them clean, and they are. But he still feels spent.

"What is there now?" he asks, settling back onto the bed. He stares out the window, down to the wet, empty street. The moonlight is too pale, giving everything a speckled, unreal glow. But of course it _isn't_ real.

"We're here, Erik. Let's make the most of it."

And this hangs in the air between them: _while we can_.

Erik drifts. He listens to the steady in-out of Charles' breath.

And then the steady in-out of waves on a shore.

Erik opens his eyes. Raises himself.

It's Cuba. It's the beach. The palms are a little greener, and the tide is out, but Erik recognizes it just the same. He can feel the hair at the nape of his neck begin to bristle. Not really meaning to, he walks over to where Charles had tumbled to the sand that day. The area has been smoothed over, perfect in the way that only comes after everything has been stroked clear by the sea.

"Why did you bring us here?" Erik asks, his voice rising.

"I didn't," says Charles, behind him. He's wearing that ridiculous uniform, blue and yellow, same as it was then. And Erik is naked. "Erik, I meant what I said. This place -- what you're seeing -- it's created by your mind as much as it is by mine."

Erik shakes his head, unable to believe it. "No," he says. He screws his eyes shut. It's all becoming mixed up: this was supposed to be his day of _triumph_ , the moment wherein everything would change. The fact that he started to build his own team so soon after was more to show Charles that Erik was an equally capable leader than to threaten him. (He has told himself this.) "I can't. I wouldn't."

And Charles' hands trace up Erik's arms, his shoulders and throat. "I forgive you."

"No!"

Erik opens his eyes. He's back in Charles' bed, in Charles' damned mansion, and Charles' breath is puffing slow and easy on Erik's cheek. Erik shifts back to put some space between their brows.

"Hi," Charles says. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," Erik admits. He feels a sticky wetness at his groin, warm but cooling fast, and his limbs are heavy, sluggish and warm. There was never regret for him, after. And there still isn't.

But he feels a headache coming on.

"How long were we--" he halts.

Charles' mouth has formed a taut line. "Not long."

Erik retreats to Charles' private bath to shed his trousers and briefs, rinsing himself before he helps Charles do the same. Charles points him in the direction of his closet, where he'd relocated the abandoned remnants of Erik's personal effects.

"I had everything cleaned," says Charles.

Erik takes a moment to sort through the box before stepping into a fresh pair of y-fronts. "You can dispose of the rest," he says. "No need for sentimentality."

Charles nods, once. "You don't have to go, Erik."

Erik looks at him then, takes in all the sadness and quiet, and also all the _strength_. That's always there, beneath Charles' facade of tousled hair and tweed and ruddy laughter. He's already all coils again, and Erik thinks Charles has put one over on the whole fucking world. It's a wonder Erik can hold his weight at all.

And Charles is looking at him, too bright and too wide. There's a minute shift in his face. Oh. "Erik. You're exhausted. Here, come here."

Erik slides back onto the bed, allowing himself to take comfort in the simple smoothness of the sheets. He doesn't touch Charles again, but aligns himself so that they're parallel, close. "Just for a moment," he promises.


End file.
